Sythyry's Journal

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Everyone who moves to Kismirth has a story. Usually the story is not very good — if one were completely happy at home, why would one move to somewhere else? The stereotypical story is of someone kicked out of home for transaffection, of course, and entering a life of licentiousness and luxury in Kismirth — like sweet beautiful Pirly. That does happen, yes indeed it does, and official civic policy is to encourage it, so it happens reasonably often.

But only a modest fraction of immigrants have stories quite like that. Here is the story of some Herethroy farmers who are not, as far as I know, anything at all like Pirly. I won’t say that they’re supremely typical either. I would say that I got more involved in their story than I usually do with immigrants, especially immigrants who are in no way nearly as sweet or beautiful as Pirly. So I am telling their story because it makes me look to be far more of a paragon than I actually am or deserve to be made to look.

In case you can’t keep track of the farmers (they are a bit rustic, which is only appropriate, as they are farmers), here are the main ones who figure in this story:

Also, “caunt” is a co-lover equivalent of an aunt or uncle, or a co-lover spouse of one’s parent who is not a parent. “Cister” is a co-lover sibling like a brother or sister. As usual, “sather” is a co-lover parent, like mother or father; “mari” is a co-lover spouse, like husband or wife, and “cosi” is a co-lover child, used both as ‘son/daughter’ and ‘boy/girl’.

The Worst Birthday Party Ever: Farmers, part 1/__

“Miss Elecampagne Rounse!” commanded Tansy Noritt. “Stand still! If you keep on wiggling like such a highly animated wigglebug, your carapace paint will look like climbing ivy, not pussytails!”

“Sorry, Caunt Tansy!” said Ellie, with the overwhelming but transitory sincerity of a child. “I don’t mean to wiggle and jiggle! But I thought there was a stinging purple beetle climbing up my hand-leg!”

“That was no stinging purple beetle,” said Tansy in a mock-ominous tone. “That was Gorsen Caragaborse, and you should have a lot more respect for the dear mayor of Dren Mafferhame than to wiggle and jiggle and giggle about her!” This was not entirely fair of Tansy. While Gorsen Caragaborse was, in fact, a purple-carapaced Herethroy woman with carabid styling, she had far too much dignity to ever crawl up a child’s leg. It is unlikely that she would do so even if (1) she happened to be miniaturized for some reason, and (2) doing so would amuse the child.

So ridiculous was the concept that it made Ellie squeal with further giggles, sending one of her painted reeds as curly as clematis. “That is so silly! The mayor’s over there, frowning herself all over!”

Tansy turned zir head, and flattened zir antennae. “Oh, dear. I hope she didn’t overhear us.” But the mayor was busy; she and a half-dozen other strong Herethroy women were carrying the village’s cardamom harvest in huge bags into the new barn.

Allam Rounse/Noritt popped out of the kitchen door of their home, holding a basket of buns in one hand, a bowl of bananas in another, and his infant son Cayenne in a third. “How’s my beautiful birthday cosi?”

“Zie’s been leaping around like a Sleeth on a griddle; there’s no painting her!” complained Tansy.

Allam clicked the toe-fingers of his free hand on his cosi’s head, tapping first one antenna, then the other. “You, m’dearie-dearie-dear, must stand still and let my wife paint you up. Or do you want to wear clothes on your birthday, like a baby?”

“I’m not a baby! I’m twelve years old now of today!” protested Ellie.

“Not ’til you’ve put out your pudding! You’re still eleven for at least two-thirds of an hour more. Maybe a full hour if you don’t let your caunt decorate you!” said Allam. Cayenne took advantage of his distraction to squirm out of his arms and head for his cister at a frantic six-legged crawl. “Come back here!” commanded Allam, and caught him mere seconds before he shared hugs, kisses, and paint with zir.

It wasn’t going to be that much of a party really. The Rounses and Noritts, together, weren’t terribly well-off. Not one sack of that cardamom was theirs. Still, they could make carrot buns for the whole village, and bring out a crock of their best pickled eggs, and make a substantial raisin pudding, generously soaked in rum and cardamom oil, as a centerpiece. And it had to be held in a barn, but that was no real surprise: only the mayor’s house was big enough for a whole party.

At length — well more than an hour — Ellie was painted. Cayenne was dressed in his best, escaped to hug Ellie while zie was still wet, and re-dressed in his second-best, and Ellie’s paint was touched up. Allam and Cory carried the pudding, a great raisinny lump of a thing, on a plank, and set it on a bale of hay at the edge of the mow. All the Rounses and Noritts climbed up there, with the adults standing in a bow-tie: Periwinkle and Coriander Rounse, then their husband Allam, then Gathern and Tansy Noritt. A respectable fraction of the rest of the village stood beneath them, on the ground floor of the new barn.

Gorsen Caragaborse, of course, did the honors. She grumbled out a thick birthday jeremiad, full of phrases like “taking zir share of the village’s responsibilities” and “leaving aside the permissive ways that zir parents have somehow inculcated in her”. But she did at least light the pudding. She wasn’t much of a mage — not many people in the village were — but any Herethroy can manage a bit of Creoc Pyrador. Virid, the god of Creation, made them all, and they have her favor.

When the pudding was burning eagerly, Ellie had zir own bit of magic to do. As a younger child she would have dipped a towel in a bucket of water and dowsed the pudding, and an adult would have created a wet towel. Ellie, a bit less certain of zir spellcraft, chose to start with a clean towel and conjure water to wet it, then use that. It was zir first public display of magic, and zie was a bit nervous. Zir parents and the Noritts watched zir, waving their antennae encouragingly. Ellie stood on two legs in front of the blazing pudding, nervously contemplating the ways of power and magecraft, and wondering if zie could switch back to a wet towel or if that would be too embarrassing.

Cayenne decided to encourage his beloved cister in his own unique way. He escaped from Gathern’s side and crawled in a flurry of limbs over to Ellie. Escaping and hurrying were his specialties; stopping somewhat less so. He hit Ellie’s leg from behind. Down went Ellie in a flurry of orange chitin. Down went the bale of hay from the mow. Down went the platter. Down went the pudding blazing like a comet, pausing only to crash against a column and spray the better part of the barn with crumbs ablaze with rum and oil.

“Oh, Cayenne!” scolded Tansy, leaping forward to the children, who were on the verge of going down themselves. Ellie, the elder and wiser, gave Cayenne a shove, pushing him into his sather’s arms and safety. Alas, zie unbalanced zirself in this rescue, and fell off.

Tansy grabbed for zir with a mid-hand as zie fell, and caught ahold of something. Zie was sure it was Ellie’s arm, and zie held it as firmly as zie could. In fact, it was Ellie’s left antenna. Antennae were never intended to hold the weight of a falling Herethroy, and, unfortunately, Tansy’s hand proved stronger than Ellie’s antenna. The rest of Ellie continued down, more or less along the same parabola that the pudding had taken, including a sharp blow to zir already-injured head against the column. Zie ended up in the arms of the mayor.

“Madam, I am afraid that your child has been irresponsibly dancing on the edge of the mow, and has injured herself,” proclaimed the mayor. She was not nearly as callous as she sounded. She was checking Elecampagne for injuries as she spoke, and ripped off her own new tunic, as the cleanest bit of cloth around, to try to staunch the blood.

Ellie was borne off to home, and cleaned, and tended with the best the village could offer. A dozen villagers had some training in the healing arts. Soon enough Ellie was restored to consciousness, and the gash on zir head erased to an unpleasant memory. Nobody in the village had the skill to reattach zir antenna, though; that is a somewhat obscure spell, and not the easiest.

In the fussing and fretting over Ellie, the villagers had forgotten about the scattering of burning oiled alcoholic cake crumbs all over the barn. The pungent incense of burning hay and cardamom was their first reminder. By then it was too late to save the barn, the hay, or the spice harvest.

Mirrored from Sythyry.

The most important and powerful person in Kismirth is Phaniet, as mayor. The most resplendently-titled, and often resplendently-dressed, person in Kismirth is Prince Rastomil. He is not a prince of Kismirth, for we have not yet managed to produce royalty of our own. Or we have managed not to produce royalty of our own; I’m not sure which. He is a prince of Barency, which you can see over there, by the main trunk on Dentheia, if you use a telescope. This is why we have a few telescopes mounted on the railings of the Purple Promenade.

We have a number of useful things on the Purple Promenade, the big balcony or avenue or boardwalk which goes all around Kismirth’s equator. Arguably the most useful of these is Prince Rastomil himself. He is not actually mounted on the railings, (and, as far as I know, never has been, (which is more than I can say for some people)). When he has nothing better to do — which is often — he strolls resplendently along the promenade. This is, in fact, his formal job, and he is better paid by Kismirth for doing it than I am for doing my own job.

As he strolls, as he showers the glory of his lime-colored waistcoat and copper coronet upon all who pass, he stops and converses with anyone who wishes. Not every city is blessed with such royalty — royalty who can be found strolling casually upon the main boulevards! With nothing better to do than stop and chat with tourists!

Orren Tourist: “Ho there, royal fellow!”

Prince Rastomil: “And a good day to yourself as well, O honored Orren visitor! Be welcomed in Kismirth!”

Orren Tourist: “Oy, are you a real prince, like your crown says?”

Prince Rastomil: “I am indeed! I am prince of Barency, a city which you can just barely see over there. A telescope might help.”

Orren Tourist: “A real royal prince!”

Prince Rastomil: “And what has brought you to this spot of civilization in the empty air? Aside, of course, from the skyboat of the noble and honorable Windigar.”

Orren Tourist: “Ough, I’m here from Vheshrame on vacation. Free tickets on my wife’s cousin’s husband’s friend once removed’s skyboat, wouldn’t you know?”

Prince Rastomil: “Windigar’s skyboat, I presume? He is your wife’s cousin’s husband’s friend once removed, you say? A splendid chap, and a splendid pilot. Still — do you hire a Cani as a cartographer of your friends, so that you can tell so precisely how you have come to know them?”

Orren Tourist: “Windigar’s boat, that’s the one! I don’t have a Cani, I’m not sure, he might be my husband’s brother’s uncle’s lover or something.”

Prince Rastomil has a certain special ability. I, personally, lack this power completely. I would substitute my deep, incisive, and frequently-wrong social insight, thus:

Hypothetical Sythyry: “Ah! You have no idea of the relationship, other than you’re Orren from the same city. But you are taking the opportunity to mention that you have an Orren wife and an Orren husband, thereby dispelling any suspicions that you might be traff, despite your willingness to visit a city of such dubious reputation as Kismirth.”

But Rastomil’s powers are supreme! He is aware of this particular conversational pass — he hears it a few times a day — but, somehow, by the grandness of his mightiness, he manages to avoid sarcasm. He might reply more thus:

Prince Rastomil: “He surely could be the friend of both your husband’s and your wife’s sides! Did they come too, or are you the advanced scout from your Orren household, investigating this new pond to paddle in?” Notice how beautifully he lets the tourist preserve the illusion of being wholly cisaffectionate.

Orren Tourist: “My wife’s here. She’s off gambling. Wanted to try out the Cartesian Casino, she said. I have the worst luck at cards myself, so I’m here doing some shopping and looking out at the vistas and views and scenery!”

Hypothetical Sythyry: “Of course a person doing some shopping and scenery-watching would have failed to notice the telescopes! And of course your proximity to a street of rentable Herethroy is fully coincidental!”

Prince Rastomil: “A wonderful pastime! I myself have been doing it for months, and have not tired of it. Have you been to the top spires yet? The views from them are spectacular, simply spectacular.”

Kismirth, according to Feralan, is shaped like three half-spheres in a line, with three cones point-up on top of them. Arfaen, of course, describes it as a three-scoop ice cream sundae with three cones inverted on top.

Orren Tourist: “No! I haven’t been up there yet!”

Hypothetical Sythyry: “Yet, somehow, you have explored the alleys and avenues here in considerable detail, and, perhaps, the professionals who work there in even more detail.”

Prince Rastomil: “The creator gods, sitting in the sky, have a better view. I doubt that any mortals do!”

Orren Tourist: “Is it a long climb? It looks high!”

Hypothetical Sythyry: Mopily wishes zie could think of a pungent and prickly sarcastic reply, but can’t.

Prince Rastomil: “It is a mile or more vertically from here. But it is not a long climb at all! Have you noticed the many vertical tubes, such as the one there, marked with that glyph? Which gleam with Ruloc and Sustenoc and every Noun?”

Orren Tourist: “I missed them, one and all, no matter how ubiquituous they are!”

Hypothetical Sythyry: Fortunately, the words I put into your mouth obviate any need for sarcasm.

Prince Rastomil: “They are called ‘levities’, and they levitate you from one level to another. Simply tap the glyph with a foot, or make a gesture that the governing spirit thinks to be that, and — whoosh! — up or down you go!”

Hypothetical Sythyry: “Though not in the sense of ‘Whoosh! Up and down you go!’ that you have been indulging in so much recently!”

Orren Tourist: “Oooh, sparkly! I shall fly-itate!”

Prince Rastomil: [looking at the tail of the scurrying-off Orren Tourist] “Enjoy the view, O Orren!”

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Fennel was certainly in his element, when he came to Kismirth. His element being, of course, miniscule throngs of the middle and upper classes, out to enjoy certain classical passtimes — gambling, drinking, fornicating, eating — plus occasional more enlightened activities, such as music (we are trying to import performers from here and there, though we are not managing to attract the best ones yet) and museums (similarly, not yet fully constructed or equipped).

(On “miniscule throngs” — we are hoping to get substantial throngs, and I imagine we will in good time. We were at the time getting dozens of people where we want hundreds.)

His particular interest was the Cartesan Casino, and the Forfeits of Fornication in particular. Fennel, like most of our customers, quickly figured out that the real object of the game is to lose — two players out of the nine in each round lose — and, as the price of loss, to bodily enjoy the other loser on the stage. He learned how to pay for extra balls in the game, which would guarantee that, if he lost, he often got the person of his choice as the other loser. If anyone asked — and nobody in Kismirth ever asks — he could deny all responsibility for his passions and behavior.

But it is possible to win at an afternoon of Forfeits, too. One does not win in a single round; seven of the nine players simply do not lose. But if one goes for some while without losing too many games, one is eligible for one of the Grand Prizes. Some of them are cash: this is a casino after all. (Not very much cash, since we don’t want certain high-priced troubles.) Others are not cash: we know what our customers are here for, viz., cross-species sex with some measure of plausible deniability.

Fennel, on the afternoon in question, won an overnight date with the Dancer of the Day, from sunout to dawn. Not a terribly unlikely fate, given that only some two dozen people stayed that day in the Forfeits game long enough to be eligible for a Grand Prize. (Players are likely to play until they lose once or twice or thrice, until the satiety of their loins recommends they switch to a less physically demanding form of gambling — which the Cartesan Casino or another one will be more than happy to provide.)

He all but danced up to Suite 18, which is where the date takes place in the common case that the winner is not staying in the casino’s rooms. This was, in fact, his second Grand Prize of the Dancer of the Day, and the first one had been an Orren woman of amazing skill and agility. He had great hopes for this one as well.

But when he got to Suite 18, he yelped, “You!”

And the Dancer of the Day yelped back, “You!”

Fennel stared. “Pirly? What are you doing here?”

Pirly tried to arrange his exotic-dance garments to be far less exotic. “I’m the Dancer of the Day. I often am, when the winner is Herethroy.”

“I mean, what are you doing in Kismirth?”

Pirly leapt lightly from the back of the couch, and landed sitting cross-legged on the floor. He had learned a great deal in a few months in his new profession. “Dancing a lot. Pleasuring Herethroy whenever I feel like it. Owning a little fraction of the casino. Building my own printing press in my spare time.”

“I, uh, suppose I see.” Fennel drooped his antennae. “I never expected to see you again.”

“And you’d have been just as happy if it stayed that way,” said Pirly. “I suspect I owe you an apology. I didn’t behave at all well, when I came to your home that time. I had put far too much meaning on far too little a word. I was naive and foolish and unprofessional, and I am quite sorry for whatever sorts of grief I gave you.”

Fennel smiled. He had the vague sense that it was he who owed Pirly an apology of some sort for something or other. “Ah, quite all right, Pirly, quite all right. It inspired an important set of conversations with my spouses. As a result, I go on solitary vacations thrice yearly, to places like Kismirth. Get the traff out of my system for the while, as it were.”

Pirly laughed. “I don’t think the traff is going to get out of my system. Not if I stay in Kismirth with a constant buffet of Herethroy presenting their genitalia to me.”

“Weren’t we doing that back in Ulmarn?” asked Fennel.

“Well, it was always rather cramped in that little washroom. Now I get big beds — or on stage or something. And I used to feel a bit bad about taking time from my printing job at it. Now it’s part of my job, and I get to feel bad about sneaking back to my apartment and fiddling with my press during lunchtimes.” Pirly grinned, and said, “So it wasn’t a very big change for me, after all. I swapped my job and my hobby, is all, and wound up in a different city than I’d meant to be in. Not much of a matter at all for a Rassimel.”

Fennel tugged his toe-fingers nervously. “So, um, what shall we do now? Tonight?”

Pirly considered. “I wouldn’t be the first Dancer of the Day to declare the day’s winner to be inappropriate …”

“Your, um, pimp doesn’t mind you turning down a, um, john?” asked Fennel.

Pirly considered for a moment. “I am my pimp, or one of them, anyhow. We’re a collective here. By the same token, it is burning fur off my own tail if the grand prizes don’t turn out too well, and we start losing customers and getting a bad name. So I’m going to pretend that I don’t know you, and we’ll do what we came here for. Which is pretty much true; I certainly didn’t know the first thing about you when we scrambled each others’ lives, a few months ago.”

This poll exists largely to provide incriminating evidence against you. Refusal to answer a question shall be taken as evidence that you would have answered the question the worst possibly way but are covering it up.

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Stormydragon asks: Do [Herethroy] like [being Herethroy], or are they just resigned to it?

Let’s ask them!

What, all of them?

Yes! Let’s ask all of them!

1. Hops and 48%: I don’t think about it very often. Why would I? It’s not as if I could be anything else very easily. It has its good points and its bad points, more good than bad I guess.
2. Greenstripe and 43%: I am very glad to be a Herethroy. Other prime species are so low on limbs, it’s just pitiful! I rejoice in my smooth carapace, tough and protective yet light and sensitive, so easy to adorn with gems and metal inlay. I rejoice in my swift and graceful body, my highly expressive antennae, my exceedingly-useful Creoc knack! I love being, I love being, I love being a beetle!
3. Coriander and 15%: I am not fond of being an impoverished peasant. This doesn’t so much have to do with being a Herethroy.
4. Fennel and 15%, mostly male: I am glad to be a Herethroy man (or an attractive co-lover). Aside from having a very nice body, I have a dessert of extra status over other Herethroy — and that means, all the sex I want, and girls and cosis competing for my attention, and generally lots of treats.
5. Chickory and 10%, mostly female: This concept of “too many women” is awful. I’m never going to manage to get married, and probably never even going to lose my 3-virginity (even if I somehow manage to make it with one other Herethroy). It’s not so much having a Herethroy body that’s so bad, it’s the general Herethroy social structure.
6. Casamint and 8%: The problem isn’t so much being Herethroy, about which I have no complaints. It is about rustication. I don’t want to live in a sleepy socialist Herethroy village. I want to live in a big, bright, exciting city! This is not always easy to do if one wishes have a reasonable Herethroy life, e.g., getting married.
7. Marjoram and maybe 1%: Real strong, four arms, built-in armor. Why would a tough adventurer want to be anything else?
8. Mynthë and a tiny fraction of 1%: I hated being Herethroy! I hated it more than anything else in the world, save one thing, and that one thing was Sythyry putting words in my mouth — especially after I died and had no useful way of objecting any-the-more. So zie’d better stop it.

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Relee asks: I don’t know much about World Tree magic. How do you folk measure the power of a spell to determine how strong it is? Now I’m curious what your most powerful spell is, and what the most powerful spell you’ve heard of is, for comparison!

A typical spell, when it is cast, has an appearance of power about it, much as a flame has a brilliance or luminosity. Different casts of the same spell vary in power — even for the same person, they vary somewhat. We measure the power of spells by the intensity of their appearance.

Often, the measured power is correlated with something measurable in other ways. A simple spell of power [5] makes [one yard] of rope-vine; a spell of power [10] makes [two yards]. I typically make about twenty-some yards with that spell, with a typical power [of 100 or a bit more].

[I translate spell powers as well as distances into English; Sythyry uses different units for both. -bb]

There is a separate dimension, of spell complexity. More intricate spells (which generally do more, or do more subtle or harder things) are more complex. The rope-vine-making spell is the simplest quantum, called 5 (because it takes 5 cley to graft that spell on — no spell takes fewer, and all spells take multiples of 5, hence they are proper quanta.) A good professional mage has a couple of complexity-20 spells in her specialty. The best healers have a couple of 30′s. My most complex spell, Dancing in the Garden of Statues, has complexity 100; I do not have many that complex, or even close. (Vae can improvise spells of complexity 80 on nearly any topic, and power [150-200], without any effort at all; this makes her a truely fearsome creature indeed. My best spell is better than her efforts in that topic — which is impressive indeed! — but she is nearly as good as my best in everything. And I have very limited cley, and she has no limits whatever. )

[There is no need to translate spell complexities, since those are simply numbers that have a simple physical explanation.]

Spell effects are often exponential in the complexity. A complexity-5 spell can make a few yards of rope-vine. A complexity-10 variant can make the same number of tens of yards of rope-vine — and a mage who has both variants grafted and can cast both, will cast them at precisely the same power [or, more accurately, at the same distribution of possible powers. -bb] A complexity-15 spell will make so many hundreds of yards; a complexity-20 spell so many thousands of yards. The rate decreases after that, typically, so a complexity-30 (rather than 25) spell is required to make so many myriads of yards, and a complexity-45 spell so many tens of myriads.

For extra confusion, not all topics behave this way. Attack spells increase very slowly; a complexity-25 spell does only slightly more damage than a related complexity-5 spell.

Of course, high-complexity spells are hard to learn, hard to cast, hard to invent, and hard to box; they are tremendously expensive, and very few people can actually cast them.

The power of one’s spells is only a mediocre measure of how good a mage one is. Two mages might be able to achieve power [40] on the average, say, but if one only has complexity-5 spells and the other has several complexity-30′s, the second will be far more effective with her magic. [Also, a mage who averages power 40 in a Noun+Verb combination will probably be able to cast spells of complexity 30 or so, but probably not more. Sythyry thinks this is too obvious to need mentioning, but zie is wrong. -bb] However, a bit of money — well, a lot of money — and a few months’ work could give the first mage all the second one’s spells, and make the two be roughly equal.

Anyhow, it is easy to measure spell power, and spell power is strongly correlated with everything else that matters about a mage — except for a number of important disciplines, but never mind that — so we measure by power as a convenient shorthand.

There is no power level at which one is given a title of advanced magic, like “sorcerer” (meaning “very impressive spell user”) or “wizard” (meaning “even more so”). These titles are awarded informally: if enough sorcerers and wizards call you a sorcerer or wizard, you can call yourself one too and nobody will sneer. Usually one must impress the people of the rank one aspires to, in some way. I did it with a very clever time-distortion enchantment, plus surviving a century of nendrai wrangling (and, more to the point, breaking many of her curses despite having nothing like the necessary power or complexity of my own spells.)

There are of course many further elaborations and important details not mentioned herein, but I daresay I may have already melted your ear if not your brain, so I will shut up now.

[They can be found in the World Tree sourcebook. Rather to my surprise, I've only deviated from the sourcebook in a few ways in a decade of Sythyryzing. E.g., the attitudes towards transaffection are moderately different in Sythyry's world than in the sourcebook, and the rules on making other people immortal seem to be rather harsher for Sythyry. The sourcebook is lots of fun to read, and only half of it is game rules! Buy it, read it, and see where else you can catch me contradicting it! -bb]

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Pirly got a frown from the concierge at the Hotel of Hopeful Habitations. Surely she did not realize that Pirly was a prostitute, and an unsuccessful transaffectionate one at that. More likely she was under the impression, probably true, that she would be the one obligated to clean up the dripping of mud, blood, and wine that Pirly was tracking on the floor. However, she did allow him to pass, and even grudgingly admitted that Inconnu was in room eighteen, and, unless he had somehow snuck past her, was there now, and had said that he was willing to receive guests.

Pirly hesitated at the door to room eighteen. “This is surely some new phase of misadventure I am about to inflict upon myself,” he told himself. “Yet, I am lozenless, I am jobless, I am far from home, and I am injured and filth-besmirched. To these temporary-sounding accidents I will have to add, I am transaffectionate, and I am guildless, both of which are qualities which are unlikely to change, and both of which are likely to cause the prior unfortunate circumstances to recur. It is either knocking on a door such as this, or some form of suicide. And, I daresay, suicide will still be an option after knocking at this door — or, if I am unfairly lucky, the occupant of this room will kill me without much ado — while this door will not be an option when I am in the grave. If anybody bothers to bury me, of course. Ulmarn has not been generous with anything during my life; why should they be after my death?”

So he knocked.

Inconnu answered. The relevant part of Inconnu is the hat, which is broad and brown felt, with a brass buckle in the shape of a mythical gargoyle, (recall that metal is rare on the World Tree, so that using it for ornamentation is quite ostentatious), and set with seven fantastically-dyed feathers, characteristic of all prime species save the Orren — that is, save his own. Inconnu, personally, is the sort of person who would wear a hat like that. He is an Orren, blatantly an adventurer, and blatantly traff.

“Thefefy’s mustard, O Rassimel! You’re in a sorry state! What horrible fate has befallen you? Tell me, tell me — while I repair the damage!” cried Inconnu passionately. He brushed Pirly with a gleaming ivory bangle, so that Pirly’s wounds closed, and then with an embroidered bookmark, so that Pirly’s clothes were instantly rendered clean and fresh. (Not my work! I rarely have time to make such trinkets anymore. My apprentice Feralan made them both last year, as practice-pieces. I am unclear as to how Inconnu wound up with them. I suspect Feralan put them into our general adventuring supplies.)

Pirly was a bit bewildered. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t the money to pay you for the use of your cley.”

Inconnu shook his head, which, for Inconnu, is an elaborate wriggle which jiggles him from ears to tailtip. “Think nothing of it, O Rassimel! Thefefy’s femur, man, I would not cast spells for you without asking and then charge you for them! Besides I did not cast the spells myself — I am an elegant and successful adventurer, among other things, and I have many magical devices about me for uses as practical as healing, and as differently-practical as grooming!”

Pirly sat on a tooled-leather ottoman, and looked around the hotel room, hung with tapestries and the portraits of a previous generation of nobility. “I can’t argue with the elegance or successfulness, if you rent rooms like this. What adventure are you on now?”

Inconnu smiled. “An easy, if very practical, sort of adventure, by Thefefy’s button mushroom! I stride from city to city, seeking qualified individuals for this or that form of employment in Kismirth. Ah? What is this? I detect that you frown just a touch, but your ears perk up? There is a curiosity on you, you have a question or a wonderment or simply a hope?”

“I do need a job,” said Pirly quietly. “The … someone suggested that you might be hiring people like me.”

Inconnu brushed his whiskers with a white-gloved hand. “By Thefefy’s neti pot, The Someone may well be right! What sort of person are you? What, even, has the dignity and honor to be your name?”

“I’m Pirly oa Nespite … I’m … well … I don’t talk about it very much, but …” He trailed off.

Inconnu smiled. “I shall hazard a hypothesis, by Thefefy’s calliope! I shall give a guess! You are one of those far-too-rare individuals whose capacity for love and the related emotions — which provide all true brightness in the World Tree! — extends far beyond the bounds of his own species. Not to mince words about it, for I save the sharp edge of my sabre for more wicked foes than words, but you are transaffectionate!” He grinned. “And, not to put too fine a point on it, I am as well.”

Pirly simply nodded. It can be hard to get a word in edgewise past Inconnu, even when he stops talking.

“And, indeed, all sorts of people in Castle Wrong — which forms the moral, spiritual, and financial core of Kismirth — are transaffectionate as well. It is a topic which we understand in great and intimate detail, by Thefefy’s duck-press! Indeed, Castle Wrong was founded for the express purpose of the protection and advancement of people such as you are, and I am. When I first joined I was in circumstances no better than your own, and now — my situation has improved somewhat!” Inconnu grinned a huge and self-satisfied grin.

Pirly was not utterly reassured. “What sort of job is it?”

“That depends somewhat on your inclinations and talents, by Thefefy’s lobelias!” proclaimed Inconnu.

“I like Herethroy especially,” said Pirly, his ears flat, his tail tucked between his legs. “I, well, I do, I can do…” He trailed off, unsure of just what to say, and nearly as ashamed of saying it as he was of doing it.

Inconnu smiled tolerantly. “Ah, you must be the journeyman printer, currently renowned in story and song throughout Ulmarn! I delight in the occasional Herethroy myself, by Thefefy’s occo buco! And I delight them quite thoroughly, too. And do you seek to make this hobby into an actual profession? That may well be possible! But you seem nervous, you seem downcast. We have positions that allow you to keep your clothing on and your chastity, or lack thereof, to your own schedule.”

“Do I need to decide now?” asked Pirly, who was unsure of what he was getting himself into.

“It is no such emergency, by Thefefy’s insignificant monstrance! Indeed, as I observe your tremulous uncertainty, I forbid you to decide until you have seen your choices in detail! You have guessed about the positions providing intimate services to guests of other species — or even the same species, we do not utterly despise the cisaffectionate when they come a-touristing! And I have hinted about a position as a croupier running gambling games, as well as many more mundane and less specialized positions as cooks, waiters, guards. And printers, if the guild will have you back — no? Very well. There are other choices in a variety of degrees. You are pretty enough and lithe enough to do well as an exotic dancer, I should think!”

Pirly smiled a bit. “Thank you… um … it’s been a very bad day … do I have to demonstrate for you?”

Inconnu flung his arms apart. “What? Shall I make an insistent demand upon your body and your favors, waving the prospect of an enticing job over your head as a way to get you to drop trou? No, no, a thousand times no, by Thefefy’s forgotten orrery! Should you ever wish to behave unchastely with me, it is your choice and your choice alone — though I shall accept if my tyrannical schedule permits!”

“I’m glad to hear that. It’s especially Herethroy, for me … and it has been a terrible day … I mean, if I’m going to be a professional, I should be able to please anyone … and it’s not like I’ve never been with an Orren before … but … I might be a croupier … that shouldn’t be very …” babbled Pirly.

“It requires that you dress quite sharply and act masterful and supremely attentive,” said Inconnu. “You should be a natural at it, by Thefefy’s ostentatious barnacles!” Which might have been optimism or encouragement, or simply insight.

Pirly cocked his head. “Thank you. One other question, if I may?”

“Anything! We have no secrets in Kismirth — save, of course, the secrets of our customers, which are as sancrosanct as Thefefy’s moratorium!”

“Who is this Thefefy you keep talking about? I never heard the name before.”

Inconnu smiled. “Ah — Thefefy is a god of a nearby universe, whom I had the honor to defeat a few years ago.

Pirly’s eyes came as big as suns. “You defeated a god?”

“I did, indeed! She thought it was a combat — and by some standards she won that part of it. She is a god, after all. But it was actually a contest of will and intellect, and she had no victory overall! But that is a story for another time, and a more plentiful supply of brandy and small salty comestables,” said Inconnu. (We have long since given up trying to persuade Inconnu to keep quiet about his fight with the god, which was a horrible and unfortunate event. But we have, at least, trained him to be clear that he is not as powerful as a god, nor anywhere close. In point of fact, Thefefy had every advantage over Inconnu, and killed him many times; but Inconnu held her attention for long enough for us to accomplish certain hurried and foolish objectives that she could easily have prevented had Inconnu not been so intense. But even the meanest victory over a god is an impressive deed indeed, and he did endure her wrath for quite a long while, so Inconnu’s boasting may be forgivable or at least understandable. I do not, however, know if she has a twelfth part of the odd items he attributes to her. She and I were never on the most social of terms.)

Rather unsurprisingly, Inconnu did let Pirly sleep in his hotel room that night, and for the two further nights that they stayed in Ulmarn. I have heard a thousand stories about what happened in those nights. They cannot all be true. Indeed, I am not sure that any of them can be true, except the one concerning Pirly and the Herethroy co-lover that Inconnu recruited as an exotic dancer. But that story consists almost entirely of details of a sort that should not be shared, except that they are the sort of thing that Pirly is known to do, and so it must remain unstated.

Mirrored from Sythyry.

Pirly had no such luck. The job for which he had journeyed to Ulmarn had vanished, and with it his membership in the widespread and influential Printer’s Guild. The object of his obsession had not lifted a limb or spoken a syllable in his defense, and, worse, had not actually loved him for longer than the length of an orgasm. The broadsheets and gossip-courts of Ulmarn knew him, mocked him, condemned him. And even the cheap brandy he had drunk to give himself courage to approach Fennel was barely muddling his mind anymore.

Pirly said to himself, “Well, I can do nothing about most of those. But I could get some kathia, and perhaps with the alertness and clarity of mind it brings, see my way to some solution to the many problems and woes as made by my nature. Or I could get some more brandy, and escape them briefly — or, with the loss of inhibition and gain of libido it brings, wind up in some other Herethroy’s bed. Perhaps, if I am lucky, someone I could stay with for some while in exchange for bodily services. This is important, for I have no home in Ulmarn, now that Harponz has cast me out of his attic as well as his guild. … Yes! Brandy, not kathia, is surely the best course!” By which it must be understood that, while Rassimel are generally the cleverest of primes, they are in no way the wisest.

“But, what woe is this?” cried Pirly. “When I went to Fennel’s home, I had my purse, holding the entirety of my worldly wealth — but now the purse is with me no longer! Yet I cannot reasonably return to Fennel’s home to retrieve it, as they roared they would take a ravenous revenge upon me if I returned!”

He bewailed his miserable misfortune for a few minutes, but then his boyish bouyancy reasserted itself. “Well, I had planned on selling my body anyhow. I suppose I shall simply start that plan a day earlier and a diligence eagerlyier than originally!” With this noble yet ignoble resolution firmly in place, he washed his face quickly in the canal, made sure that his subtle insignia of availability and transaffection were in place, and set off for the Slivard Quarter, where such commerce is commonplace.

The Slivard Quarter

The Slivard Quarter of Ulmarn is a small but tangly maze. Tiny and highly specific shops, few of them grander than a Gormoror’s guestroom, sell decorative scarves, or toothbrushes, or marital aids, or hallucinogenic chocolates, or pornography for those who revel in the joys of long tails, or any of a thousand other such specialties that one might never imagine would support a whole shop.

In fact, most of them have some illicit trade on the side. Some sell smuggled shoes — the import duties for shoes in Ulmarn are notoriously high, and the Cobbler’s Guild is in the process of collapse, so, this year, legal footware is hard to find. Some sell chocolates spiked with illegal hallucinogens, as a straightforward sideline to the chocolates spiked with legal ones.

And some — ah, some! Perhaps they have recently been discovered by the city guard, so that their illicit side trade has been revealed and rooted out. Perhaps they have gotten behind in their bribes, to the same effect. Or perhaps they simply did not wish to incur the expenses and inconveniences and labors of maintaining a proper illicit side trade, which can be considerable. So they simply have a small room in the back, scarcely grander than the closet in a Gormoror’s guestroom, containing — let us say — a cot. And if they are particularly fancy, the cot will have clean linens on it, and there might be a few amenities such as towels and a pitcher of clean water for washing up. Such small rooms can be rented for a small fee, for a short time. A few even double as actual miniature hotel rooms for penurious tourists who want to be in the middle of things and do not demand overmuch from their accomodations. I stayed in one such room once for a night; it was arranged by post in advance, and my secretary at the time was under the impression it was a room in a larger and more dignified hotel. (Or that is the story I tell everyone.)

Pirly knew about the rental of rooms, of course. Not from personal experience. He had saved on rental fees, and time, by using the washroom of the print shop — which may be a lesson in the folly of cutting corners in pursuit of one’s bug passion.

He found a likely spot, on the corner of St. Spannion’s Street and the Alley of the Drill-Shops, and kept an eye out for the sort of people he usually kept an eye out for. Soon enough — a Herethroy co-lover, strolling along, with a bag from the toothbrush-shop in zir hand, wearing a pair of yellow and crimson antenna-clips. Pirly put on his brightest and most appealing smile, and stepped forth. “Ah! I admire your antenna clips!”

Zie blinked at him in confusion. “I gratefully accept your admiration on their behalf. I could attempt to tell you the name or location of the boutique at which I purchased them, which I left a mere three minutes ago. But alas! It had no name, or none posted at any rate. And the dozen wriggling walkways and subtle streets I have trod have quite escaped my mind. In any case, it sold only Herethroy accessories, so its value to you may be limited.”

Pirly persevered. “But — I admire the Herethroy greatly! Had I a bit of spare money, I should gladly buy a trillion trinkets to give to those beautiful ones who, like myself, catch my eye in the street.”

Zie smiled politely. “Alas for your penury! But, fortunately, I have already bought my own trinket, so there is no need for you to spend your hypothetical money on it.” Zie attempted to step around Pirly and continue down the street.

Pirly was at a loss. “But — O beautiful and foreign Herethroy tourist — you seem to be at a bit of loose ends in the bustling city of Ulmarn! I am unoccupied today. For a tiny consideration, I shall be your native guide, and show you a wider range of and deeper intensity pleasures than you had expected to experience in our wonderful city! For I am wonderfully capable of providing enjoyments to Herethroy.”

Zie stepped away from him. “My ends are my own, and I shall satisfy them in my own ways, at my own times. In any case, if I were to hire a native guide, I should pick one whose accent was that of Ulmarn, rather than the clipped consonants of Culchrame.”

Pirly gasped and put his hands over his muzzle. As he did so, a towering Herethroy woman dressed in laborer’s clothes, yet with well-hemmed slits in strategic spots, strode over to him. “Is this Rassy troubling you, miss?”

The co-lover cocked zir antennae at the newcomer. “Rather so! He appears to have propositioned me, which I do not need from my own species and do not appreciate from others.”

Pirly snapped, “Then you should not be wearing yellow and crimson antenna clips, for they signify openness and even eagerness to such invitations!”

The co-lover ripped the clips off zir antennae and threw them at Pirly. “I shall murder the shopkeeper who sold them to me without warning! If I can find him again, which is doubtful.”

The giant woman placed a foot-hand on Pirly’s chest and shoved him away. She said to the co-lover, “Now, if there is any sort of recreation you would appreciate while you are in Ulmarn, please note: I am your own species; I am actually from Ulmarn; and I have rescued you from this Rassimel rascal!”

“I note all of these things, and, should my circumstances change so completely that I am in need of such services, I shall send for you swiftly!” said the co-lover in frosty tones. “In the meantime, I shall stride down St. Spannion’s Street, where my husband the hero and my wife the wizard await me, disapproving of any delay.” Zie put actions to words. (Though, if there were a Herethroy wizard in Ulmarn at the time, word of it never came to my laboratory; and wizards are incessant gossipers about such matters.)

“And you!” said the giant to Pirly. “Propositioning a tourist on the streets, and a different-species one at that! What do you think you are!”

“Hungry,” said Pirly.

“Well, that’s the Khtosyis’s cape,” said the giant. “He’s whoring himself to Herethroy because he’s hungry. Tell me, little boy, who’s the horny hero?”

“What? … um … am I supposed to be?” asked Pirly.

“Hah, he thinks it’s him!” said the giant. Another Herethroy and a Cani, in interesting garments that were only slight variants on common street-wear, joined them. “What you are supposed to be is a member of the guild. If you’re hiring yourself out, that is, which it sure looks as if you are.”

“Guild? There’s a guild…?” said Pirly.

“Yeah, there’s a guild. You can’t join it though. The Guild don’t approve of Rassies going after bugs,” said the new Herethroy. “We’re decent folks, the Prostitutes of Ulmarn, we are, and we won’t have traff trash around. You want money, you can damn well sell cley. Hooking is skilled work, I’ll have you know, and we keep our standards high!”

“My elbows! Release my elbows, if you would be so kind! Oh, why do you lift me and carry me to the alley? Oh, no! I object to this procedure!” wailed Pirly.

Every guild has its own means of humiliating and discouraging interlopers. The guilds of advanced and subtle trades, such as healers and smiths, use advanced and subtle means, such as administering nearly-impossible tests, and, should the interloper somehow arrange to pass, accepting them as retroactive members for a substantial retroactive payment. The Prostitutes of Ulmarn, perhaps because of the direct and physical nature of their trade, administered a direct and physical discouragement.

The Cani prostitute stayed for a moment afterwards, and even offered a flask of cheap wine so that Pirly could wash the mud and horse-wastes and slightly decayed pig intestines out of his wounds and hopefully keep them from getting infected. “We don’t approve of your kind in Ulmarn. But there’s a foreign Orren, from Kismirth in Vheshrame Mene, been asking around about traff sluts who want to go off to traff-slut-land.” She gave him directions. It was, after all, an easy way to clean up the city.